


Rent Day Blues - Bits and Pieces

by akire_yta, breeisonfire, Heavenward (PreludeInZ), PreludeInZ



Series: Rent Day Blues [2]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: F/M, First Responders - Freeform, Poor!Tracys, side canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-02-27 08:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 16,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18735490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akire_yta/pseuds/akire_yta, https://archiveofourown.org/users/breeisonfire/pseuds/breeisonfire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreludeInZ/pseuds/Heavenward, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreludeInZ/pseuds/PreludeInZ
Summary: Here is a collection of Side Stories for Rent Day Blues! This AU was always somewhat experimental, and so the side stories sort of exist in a nebulous state of semi-canon to the main work, basically just exploring these characters in these roles. Messy! But fun!





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous Prompt: Recently discovered your RDB fic and I gotta say, I am truly loving it!!! If you are still asking for promots, could I suggest a short where Scott gets hurt in the line of duty and little brother Gordo comes to help him? Thanks!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by breeisonfire!

It’s been an absolutely  _shitty_  double shift, and Gordon is ready to go the  _fuck_  home. It’s been busy, one thing after another, two cardiac arrest cases, a car crash, one diabetic seizure, one overheated baseball player, and for all Gordon knows, a goddamn partridge in a pear tree. He is  _done_  with today.

Unfortunately, he still has two hours until he’s free to go home, shower, crawl under his blanket, and not move for two days. It’s that thought that’s keeping him going. He’s almost done. He’s almost there.

Jesus  _Christ_ , is he tired.

He’s sat at a table inside the station, his partner Conrad next to him on one side and Virgil on the other. Virgil, the absolute bastard, just got here, and so looks as fresh as a daisy. The lucky fucker only has a single shift. Gordon wants to punch him.

They’ve just started eating when an alarm goes off. Gordon tries his best not to groan, he really does, but he’s being gestured to his wagon. He’s taken  _two bites_ , can the day just _end_ already.

Conrad gives him a sympathetic look, but pulls his jacket on and hops up. Gordon gives his sandwich a longing look, but follows. Virgil’s up and towards his truck, as well, and the other ambulance in the station is also loading up.

“One of those calls, huh?” he says, climbing up. It’s Conrad’s turn to drive, and thank God. Gordon’s out of patience for driving today.

“Looks like,” Conrad says, flicking on the radio, and dispatch comes through. It’s not John, though Gordon knows he’s on shift, but he thinks he knows the voice anyway. Tedford, maybe?

_“Shots fired, officer down, ambulance required.”_

Gordon’s blood runs cold.

Logically, he knows there are plenty of cops in the general area. The odds of it being Scott are low and besides, Gordon’s not even totally sure Scott’s on duty. It’s fine. He’s fine.

Dispatch - it’s definitely Tedford - gives them a sitrep, but doesn’t mention the name of the officer, which isn’t unusual. Conrad sends him worried glances, but Gordon’s getting it under control. He’s a professional, he’s good at his job, he’s needed and he can keep it together.

They’re directed to where they’re needed immediately; they’ve beaten the other ambulance, if only by a few minutes, but first come, first served, and those minutes count. Gordon takes a deep breath and steadies himself.

It’s easy enough to find the injured officer - there’s a crowd. They split to let Gordon and Conrad through without prompting, and honestly, Gordon’s not even a bit surprised when he see Scott, on the ground, bleeding.

Kayo’s kneeling next to him, putting pressure on Scott’s side, the cloth that she’s pushing against it soaking through with blood. She looks up at them as they get there, and while she looks mostly calm, there’s terror in her eyes. Gordon can’t exactly blame her.

“He got shot,” she says, rather unnecessarily. “I think it went through, but I didn’t - we didn’t want to move him too much.”

“Good call,” Gordon says, leaning forward. Scott’s eyes track him, so he’s clearly conscious, and he grimaces.

“Hi, Gordon,” he says, sounding like he’s talking through clenched teeth.

“Heya, Scooter,” Gordon says, reaching down to take his pulse. Conrad’s taking over from Kayo. “Don’t you think we’ve had enough shit to deal with lately?”

He’s not serious, and Scott seems to get that. “Sorry. S’not so much fun on this side, either.”

“Probably not,” Gordon agrees.

Scott gets less and less coherent as they work, but he’s still responsive as Gordon and Conrad get him on the ambulance. Kayo’s been pulled aside to give a statement. Conrad, probably against his better judgement, climbs up to drive, so Gordon’s in the back with Scott, who clearly does not want to be awake anymore and is making his irritation known.

“‘M fine,” Scott complains.

“You literally have a bullet hole in you,” Gordon says flatly. “Shut the hell up, or I will sedate you, don’t fucking think I won’t.”

“S’not professional,” Scott says, his eyes slipping closed.

“Come on, Scotty, stay awake,” Gordon says, glancing up at Conrad. He’s clearly focused on the road, so he looks back down at Scott. “Hey, no, Scott, stay awake.”

Scott mumbles something unintelligible, and it takes all of Gordon’s will to not start losing it there. He’s done this before, this isn’t the first time one of his brothers has been here, and he can and  _will_ keep it together. Scott’s life literally depends on it.

He continues trying to keep Scott awake, even as Scott stops responding, and continues working, mentally distancing himself as he does. This is just another patient, another routine job in a city as dangerous as theirs. It’s not even the first bullet wound this week.

Gordon doesn’t know how long it takes them to get to the hospital, but suddenly they’re there, and he’s catching up the ER nurses on Scott’s condition, and then Scott’s being wheeled away, through the doors. Somehow Gordon ends up back in the ambulance, in the seat next to Conrad, and he doesn’t remember getting there.

“Fuck,” he says, staring at the back of the car in front of them.

“That’s one word for it,” Conrad agrees.

* * *

John’s of the opinion that the last call of the night is always the worst one, and goddamn if today didn’t prove that.

 _Officer down_. John hates those words. It’s not the first time it’s happened, and technically it wasn’t his call, but those words tend to stop the entire room. It’s hard, knowing one of their own is injured. They all know most of the officers, even if they haven’t met them in person, and the worst part is no one actually knows which officer got hit.

John’s off-shift before Ned’s confirmed the officer’s en route to the hospital, and of  _course_  it’s Gordon’s ambulance that got the call. As soon as he hears the officer is at the hospital, he pulls his phone out and calls Gordon.

And immediately curses, because  _Gordon doesn’t have his phone on him_. He’s still working. He’s not supposed to.

He doesn’t bother trying Virgil, because he’s still on shift, too. Alan and Grandma won’t know anything; same with Penny. He sighs and dials the other number he has in his phone, specifically for this reason.

Kayo  _does_  have her phone on her, and she answers after the first ring. “Hello?”

“Kayo,” he says.

“John,” Kayo says, and lets out a breath. “How do you know already?”

John’s stomach sinks. “It was Scott?”

“It was Scott,” Kayo confirms. She sounds shaky, not that John blames her. “It was an armed robbery that got out of hand, and he got shot. He was conscious when they took him, that’s all I know.”

“It was Gordon and Conrad?” John asks. He can tell he’s slipped back into his dispatch voice, his words clear and steady. If Kayo notices, she doesn’t say it.

“Yes,” she says. “I have to go give statements, I’ll head over to the hospital when I’m able. Keep me updated?”

“You got it,” John says, and hangs up. He forgoes the elevator and practically flies down the stairs, nearly tripping as he makes it outside and sprints for the bus. He just barely makes it and sits down immediately behind the bus driver, working to catch his breath.

He sends a quick text to both Alan and Penny, updating them. He promises to call as soon as he has more, and then sends the same to Virgil. He doesn’t know if Gordon went back to the station or not, and it doesn’t matter either way; he won’t have his phone.

The hospital is three stops from where he works, a good four stops before he usually gets off. He unfortunately knows its location on his bus route very well, and hates it. He hates hospitals. He really, really does.

John’s well-versed in the ways of talking to the receptionist, and isn’t surprised by the fact that she has no information. He thanks her anyway and sits down, preparing for the long wait.

* * *

Gordon finishes his shift in a sort of haze. He doesn’t end up seeing Virgil again, and he’s not even sure Virgil knows what happened. He and Conrad get dismissed just as another call comes in, and two other medics sprint for their ambulance. Gordon’s absolutely fine with that. He makes his way to his locker and changes, still feeling sort of hazy.

“Gordon?” Conrad says, obviously concerned. “Do you need a ride to the hospital?”

“Oh, God, yes, please,” Gordon says, ridiculously grateful. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to handle the bus ride now, and besides, this will be much quicker. He climbs into Conrad’s small car and stares out the window.

“You did everything you could,” Conrad says quietly as they pull up outside the hospital.

“Don’t,” Gordon says sharply. “ _Don’t._ ”

“Okay,” Conrad says. “Do you want me to come in, too?”

Gordon shakes his head. “Someone’s probably already here. Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem,” Conrad says. “Let me know what’s going on, okay?”

“Okay,” Gordon says, and closes the door. He waves at him as he walks into the hospital, feeling incredibly heavy.

He spots John immediately and heads over, dropping down next to John. “Double shifts fuckin’ suck.”

John snorts. “Nice to see you, too.”

“Sorry,” Gordon says. “Heard anything?”

“At this point, you know more than I do,” John says, tilting his head to look at Gordon. He frowns. “Have you eaten? Or slept?”

“Double shift,” Gordon repeats. “I tried to eat, right before that last call. Didn’t work out so well.”

“Come on,” John says, standing up. “We probably won’t hear anything for a while. Let’s get dinner in the cafeteria and you tell me what you know.”

“Okay,” Gordon says, letting John pull him to his feet. His brain has recognized the fact that he’s off-shift, and it’s making things difficult. He’s very tired and doesn’t want to keep moving. The sandwich that John buys him does not help matters.

John manages to get most of the story out of him, though Gordon’s not sure how much sense he’s making by the end of it. John seems to get it anyway. Once they’re back up in the waiting room, John tells him to get some sleep.

“‘Mkay,” Gordon says, and drops right off.

* * *

It’s hard to wake up. Scott’s immediately irritated by this, because logically, waking up should be easy. You just stop sleeping, open your eyes, and boom, you’re awake. Except his body seems to be missing the memo, because parts of him feel like they’re still asleep, but his brain wants to be awake. But his eyes are still closed. Or, he’s pretty sure they are. His brain feels like it’s full of cotton. What the hell.

There’s a bright orange blob in his vision and hey, look at that. His eyes are open. Cool. Progress.

It takes a moment, but his eyes realize he’s awake and start to focus and wow, the orange blob is his brother. Incredible.

_What the fuck is going on?_

Green eyes blink down at him, and Scott blinks back, and then brown eyes join the green eyes. Two brothers. Nice.

Something is definitely wrong with him. It’s an abstract thought, not really a cause for concern, but it’s definitely a thought.

Scott wants to close his eyes again. He feels floaty.

“Scott?”

“Hm?”

It’s the best he can do, honestly.

“Open your eyes again, Scott.”

“Mmmmmnope.”

He hears someone laugh, and that’s good. Laughing is good. Unless it’s not good. Is it good?

“Jesus Christ.”

“He’s high off his ass, John, I told you. It’s still better than you on any sort of painkiller.”

“You’re not much better than me, Gordon.”

“Yeah, well, Scott’s better than both of us, apparently.”

_Goddamn right._

“See, he agrees with me.”

“I don’t think he meant to say that out loud.”

“Still counts.”

Scott forces his eyes open again. He still feels really weird and floaty, and he’s just decided he really does not want to be laying down on whatever it is he’s lying down on. He’s going to get up.

“No, you’re not.”

It comes from his left, and brown eyes, blond hair. Gordon.

“Yup, good job,” Gordon says, and pushes him back down. “You’re not moving. Don’t argue. Lay down.

“Don’ wanna lay down,” Scott complains. It’s not fair. Gordon’s being mean.

“Yeah, Gordon,” comes from his right, and Scott turns his head slowly to see John, who looks amused. Scott doesn’t know why he’s amused, but he grins, too, because John has a weird sense of humor, but Scott likes it anyway.

“Thanks, Scott,” John says. Scott blinks.

“Can you read my mind?” he asks, or he thinks he does. Words are hard right now.

“No,” John says, as Gordon snorts. “You’re saying most of what you’re thinking out loud.”

“Oh,” Scott says. “Okay.”

He puts his head back down on the pillow. He turns his head to see an IV stand, and blinks.

“‘M I in a hospital?” he asks.

“Yeah, Scott, you’re in a hospital,” Gordon says. “You got shot. You owe Kayo a cake or something, by the way, you scared the shit out of her.”

It takes Scott a bit to process that, but he turns his head back to look at Gordon and says, “Is she okay?”

“She’s not hurt,” Gordon says. “She’s ready to kick your ass, but she’s not hurt.”

“Tha’s good,” Scott says. “Why ‘m I floaty?”

“You got shot,” John says. “You’re on painkillers.”

Scott thinks about that, then nods. “Okay. ‘M I gonna be okay?”

“You’re gonna be fine,” Gordon says. “Maybe not after Grandma gets her hands on you, but you know.”

“She’s going to have to get in line,” John mumbles.

“Hey, I get first crack,” Gordon says. “I’m the one who had to deal with him on site.”

“I’m sorry,” Scott says, and Gordon shakes his head.

“Just don’t get shot again,” he says. “You fucking scared me, asshole.”

Scott feels bad. He wants to hug Gordon, but he’s not sure his limbs will cooperate to do that, and it’s already been made clear that he’s not allowed to move, so he lifts his arm and pats Gordon. He tries for his shoulder, but his aim’s a little off and he ends up patting Gordon’s head.

“Thank you,” he says, as seriously as he can manage. John snickers.

Gordon seems a little confused, but he pats Scott’s head too. “No problem, bro. Don’t make a habit of it.”

“Mmm,” Scott says. He yawns, and in turn sets off Gordon and John. He wants to laugh, but his brain has realized that he’s very tired. Sleeping sounds like a good idea. A very good idea.

He tries to say, “Good night,” but it comes out as a mumbled mess, and he’s too tired to try again. John and Gordon seem to get the idea, though, and they quiet down. Scott’s last thought before he falls asleep is that he’s glad the two of them are there, watching over him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt from @ MADILAYN
> 
> Can I offer a prompt please - handmade gifts
> 
> (prompts answered by all three of us!)

* * *

Gordon’s last gift to his older brother was a pamphlet listing a variety of hand and wrist exercises, in an effort to help stave off the carpal tunnel syndrome that’s probably just about inevitable, considering all the typing his brother does. Of the five of them, John and Alan are the only ones who spend any time at desks any longer, and though it doesn’t happen often, occasionally John ends up with idle time on his hands, nothing to do while he sits at his desk. Come Christmastime, it becomes apparent that he’s been putting this time to productive use. It’s not clear if he’s used any of this idle time for the provided wrist exercises.

Apparently one of the other dispatchers had taught him the basics over the course of a couple lunch breaks. Apparently she’d gotten him started with a spare pair of needles, and an old skein of yarn that she’d meant for him just to practice with—by her standards, the colour of it was too bright and gaudy for anyone to reasonably want to  _wear,_ bright, chunky, golden rod yellow—but John’s a fast learner and a perfectionist, and by the end of a few particularly slow weeks, he’d had a respectable four feet worth of scarf, garter stitched the whole way through. 

John says it’s nothing much, and that he won’t mind in the least if Gordon doesn’t wear it. He doesn’t even know if it’ll be particularly warm, being made of cheap acrylic yarn, nothing like high quality wool. He’d made it just to make it, after all, it was only supposed to be for practice. And anyway it’s out of regs, as far as the uniform goes.

Gordon doesn’t care. Gordon loves it. And he wears it from the depths of December, right up until the city starts to thaw out again.

* * *

Grandma used to do this when she was a girl, and the Depression made everything scare and then scarcer still.

Her hands are gnarled now, and ache regardless of the weather, but even if her joints fight her the movements come back quick enough.  It’s not exactly dexterous work, but moving the bundles in and out of steaming pans even coaxes some warmth into always-frozen fingertips, fills the kitchen with clean, bright scents.

Virgil’s always been a kind boy, and even though he frowns when she presents him with the box full of waxy balls, each a cacophony of original colours, he still says ‘thank you’ and means it.  “But, uh, what are they?  Do you eat them?”

Grandma had to laugh at that.  “Only if  you’ve been swearing again,” she teases, plucking one out slowly and carefully.  “I used to make these for your great-grandpa.  Soap balls, full of oils and glycerin and all sorts of good stuff.  If it got the grease off his skin, it can get the smoke outta yours.”

Virgil flushes; Grandma knew he hadn’t told a soul how much the lingering scent of fire was bugging him, even months after he’d become a full-timer.  But she had nothing much left to do now but watch her boys, had seen him sniff and frown too many times.  He leans forward and she holds out the ball in her hand for him to sniff.  It’s only because she’s watching now does she see his nose wrinkle.  “Uh, thanks Grandma.”

She gave the ball another sniff herself.  “Hmm, maybe I did put too much patchouli oil in there?”  She shrugged and dropped it back in the box.  “Well, they’re made from ends I found in the sink, so throw them out if you don’t like them.”

Virgil’s gentle, almost reverent, as he takes the box from her and presses a dry kiss to her temples.

* * *

Alan’s not sure what Scott was trying to prove, giving him something of Mom’s. Especially her  _wedding ring_. 

He shouldn’t have it. Of anyone in the family, he  _definitely_ shouldn’t have it. Alan doesn’t even  _remember_  Mom, he’d only been six when she died. Six years isn’t any kind of time to know a person, Alan doesn’t remember anything about her that means anything. His memories of Mom begin with her getting sick, and end with her coffin descending into a hole in the deep dark ground, while he’d clung weepily to one of his brothers at her graveside. He doesn’t even remember which of them it had been, he just knows for sure it wasn’t his father.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with his mother’s wedding ring.

Scott had given it to him for his sixteenth birthday, threaded onto a sterling silver chain that certainly wasn’t new, and might possibly have been removed from the neck of a drug dealer or similar, on their way into lock up. Alan had put it on, and now he wears it out of habit, and because he’d feel weird and ungrateful if he wanted to take it off. Which he doesn’t. Even in spite of the weirdness of the gift, and the fact that he feels guilty for having it, for some reason he also doesn’t quite want to take it off.

His mother had small hands. Alan doesn’t remember that about her, but he can determine that it’s true, from the way only his pinkie finger actually fits through the ring. Sometimes, in idle moments, he’ll lift his hand to the necklace and slip the ring over his smallest finger. He’ll think about the woman who wore the ring, and the man who would’ve put it on her finger, so many years ago. He’ll feel strange to think that hers was the last skin to have touched the inside of the ring, with its faint, faded, secondhand inscription: “Always”

Maybe Scott knew what he was doing, after all.

* * *

 

Penny wasn’t brought up to be the kind of girl to do her own baking.

She was brought up to be genteel and ornamental and functionally useless. She was brought up to be pretty and charming and obedient, to go where she was told and to do as she was bid.

The diner doesn’t care about pretty, or charming, or even obedient as long as the eggs made it to the table still hot from the kitchen.  The diner cares about girls that can carry eight plates at once and keep the coffee topped up.

It’s exhausting and leaves her coated in grease, and it doesn’t pay enough, even with tips that are delivered as often as not with a slap on her ass, but a part of her is so, so proud of herself for making it this far.

The library cookbook has a thumbprint marked in grease on the corner of the page.  Penny’s got her tongue permanently parked in the corner of her mouth as she studies the instructions and guesses weights and measures with a chipped coffee mug and a bowl that she’d been using to hold her fruit.

The result is lopsided, the icing slowly oozing downhill to spill over one side.  But the candles encountered nothing but fluffy sweetness as she jammed them in, setting them aflame with Virgil’s borrowed lighter.

Gordon’s eyes are golden in the firelight as he leans in to blow out the candles. “Happy birthday, darling,” Penny said as she kissed his cheek, mindful of his brothers and Grandmother ringed around the table.  “What did you wish for?”

Gordon wasn’t brought up to be genteel or charming.  He catches her jaw in a gentle hand, pulls her in for a kiss that still makes her toes curl.  “Nothing.  I’ve already got everything I could want.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ANONYMOUS Prompt: worst phone call john ever got vs. the best one (I imagine 911 call since he's dispatch but take it how you like)
> 
> (prelude and akireyta!)

The new kid’s been in the break room for an hour now, but after a call like that, it’s not like anyone can blame him. Fires are always bad, but this fire had trapped and killed two children, and the new kid had been on the line with their mother the whole time. It’s an hour since the end of the call, and he hasn’t said a word since.

The captain’s pulled him off his console, stuck him somewhere quiet to calm down. But it’s been an hour, and it’s time to send in the cavalry. The cavalry, in this case, has just clocked on for his first shift of the evening.

There’s a coffee machine and a beat up old kettle in the break room, but Ned doesn’t trust either of those things. He makes his tea at home and brings it to work in a two litre thermos, hot and strong and sweet, and  _sacrosanct_. The new kid is still too new to recognize the magnitude of the gesture being made, when Ned ambles into the break room, pulls up a chair beside him, and pours out a generous cup of tea from his very own thermos. He pushes the mug over, clears his throat, and says, magnanimous, “There now, lad, a cup of tea will help.”

Even this doesn’t get an answer, and now that he’s sitting down, Ned can see that there’s a procedural manual open in the young man’s lap. There are a couple spots of damp on the open page, and Ned pretends not to notice these as he reaches over to close the book. He picks it up and sets it aside. “Now, don’t you go beating yourself ‘bout the head with the manual,” he chides gently. “Procedure sounds grand on paper, but it’s the only place this job is actually that black and white.”

“But I did everything right.” The protest is hollow, and the first thing Ned’s heard the boy say, since the call that’s left him in this state, shaken and numb. With the crisp professionalism—the rigour of training—stripped out of his voice, he sounds alarmingly young. Ned can’t help but wonder at his age, even as he shakes his head, confused as much as he’s hurt. “I—I  _know_  I did. If they’d gotten there just a  _minute_  sooner…”

“No doubt you did everything right, but sometimes it all goes awry even so. Can’t recall if it says so in the book, but it ought to. Sometimes even everything isn’t enough.” Ned heaves a sigh. “It’s a funny old world.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“I didn’t mean the sort of funny what gets a laugh. Meant the sort of funny that makes you feel sick inside.”

“Yeah, it’s definitely that.” There’s a shuddering sigh and the shake of a bowed ginger head. “I don’t think I can do this. I thought—I thought it wouldn’t get to me. But it’s  _so_  much worse than I imagined.”

Ned nudges the cup of tea closer again. “How old are you?” he asks, tries to make it sound like idle curiosity, rather than a question he means to use to make a point.

“Twenty-two,” is the answer, and Ned manages not to wince, though it’s about what he’d expected. Barely old enough to  _drink_ , or at least to drink in  _this_  country. Hopefully too young to be inclined to really start, because Ned’s seen far too many people in this line of work turn to stiffer drinks than tea.

But as sad as the fact is, it still helps him make his point. “I’ve been doing this job longer than you’ve been  _alive_ , lad. And I won’t lie to you—there’ll be worse days than this. But you’ll help so many people, and I hope you can believe me when I tell you, that’ll help get you through.”

“Really?”

“Really. You’ll be the best part of the worst day of people’s lives, and there’s worth in that. I know it won’t seem like it, but it’s true. Now, drink your tea, and let’s get you back out on the floor. Back in the saddle, son.”

Eventually, finally, the young man reaches out and wraps his hands around the warmth of the ceramic. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll try.”

* * *

John’s trying not to lurk, but Gordon’s been at his first day of work for a whole three hours now, and John’s dying to know how it’s going.

Gordon’s still a probie, riding along with a senior team, and John knows he has nothing to worry about.  This isn’t like Virgil’s first day, where John had sat listening for fire dispatches until his head was ringing like a bell.  Gordon’s job only starts once the danger has passed, strictly enforced by regulations and rules they all know off by heart. Gordon’s safe.

Even so, John’s worrying for Gordon. He knows, they all know, how the first day in job knocks all the shine off, the carefully imagined perfect ideal of thrilling heroics and dramatic rescues. Gordon should know better, with three older brothers in the trade, but John recognized the shine in Gordon’s eyes as he’d tugged on his pristine and crisp uniform this morning.

John reached for the battered thermos tucked safely away under his station.  The steam helps clear his head, soothe his sore throat, in the little lull that John knows better than to expect would last.

He’s three sips in when boards across the room light up like it’s disaster Christmas.  The little cap-shaped mug by his side grows cold as John catches and throws messages, his eyes constantly glancing up at the situation monitor along the wall of the room.

Take old gas mains in the part of the city no-one’s patched up in decades.  Add sparks. Mix with over-crowded tenements and watch every service flirt with descending into chaos.

John’s supervisor is liaising with the fire chief, throws John the paramedic dispatch with gestures more than words.

Words are reserved for saving people.

There’s burns and broken bones, more glass than most people realize.  A gas main in a residential building was like a shrapnel bomb going off under the kitchen table.  John’s got half a dozen wagons in motion, a ballet of bodies and bandages negotiating their way around tankers and fire trucks and more squad cars than are useful at this point in the process.

“Hey,” Liesel got his attention over the low partition with a click of her fingers.  “Got someone here asking for you direct.”

“Throw it over,” John said, glancing up at the status of the fire units.  Virgil really needed to be broken of his annoying habit of calling to John directly. “Virg, I….”

“John?”  Gordon sounds tiny and young, and John immediately tracks to unit 24, Gordon’s ride-along for tonight, safely tucked away on the southern perimeter ready to roll into the building’s lot as soon as fire and rescue gave the all clear.  Gordon should be idling, gloves on and ready to follow his elders around like an obedient and  _safe_  little puppy.

“Gordon? What the….” in the background of the call came a scream of pain.  John’s identities stuttered, brother and dispatch crashing into each other.  “Report.”

“So Jack and Noorah went to go a sitrep and then this kid came and banged on my door and his mother, I think the blast set her off, and John, I think this baby isn’t going to wait for me to go fetch the wagon.”

John breathed out.  “You’ve been trained on maternal first aid, right?”

Gordon’s voice was thin, just this side of a reedy wail.  “Only in my textbook.  There weren’t even any pictures.”

John flicked three incoming calls to junior operators and settled back in his chair.  “Okay, Gordon, first thing you need to do…”

In his earpiece, Gordon’s breathing steadied as he obeyed John’s instructions, his training slowly locking into place with the messy, screaming, panicking human being in front of him.

“John, I think this kid is coming  _right now_.” 

John bit his lip to stifle his laugh.  “Then catch it,” he said as patiently as he could.

One of the best tricks John ever learned as a trainee was to listen to the background, not just the voice on the line.  There was something unmistakable about the scream of a woman giving birth.  “Holy  _shit_ ,” Gordon panted.

“Language,” John scolded mildly as he caught Liesel’s eye and gestured for her to put another tick on the new baby tally.  “Give it to her, keep them warm.”  His fingers were already tapping, rerouting one of the smaller units away from the disaster towards where Gordon’s GPS was throbbing like a heartbeat on his map.  “I’m sending two-two to collect them, they’re only a block away.”

“Got it,” Gordon managed to be professional for five seconds.  “Hey,” he cooed a second later, and John knew it wasn’t him Gordon was talking to.  “Welcome to the world, little lady.”

John knew he should end the call, log the incident, get back to helping his team coordinate paramedics around the crater.  But something made him linger.  “Gordon?”

“Two-two have got them.  Mission accomplished,” Gordon quipped weakly.

“You okay?”

There was a long pause. “Wow, that was…Johnny, that was really something else.”

John could see the service messages on his screen start to back up.  He took a deep breath.  “It really is.  But now other people need you.”

“Yeah. Blast. Shit, sorry…but wow is it weird I completely forgot about that?”

John leaned in, his hand hovering over his keys once more.  “Hey, think of it this way.  Your first baby.” He waited for Gordon’s happy little noise.  “I think there’s gonna be a lot more firsts for you today, probie, so time to gear up and get back in the saddle. Can you do that for me?”

A weak chuckle echoed in his ear.  “I’ll try.”

John ended the call and gave himself a moment to exhale, to feel the warm soft glow of  _pride_.  Then he tapped a key and picked up the next call.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from SCRIBEOFRED: 
> 
> something Scotty (because I'm so predictable)
> 
> (by prelude!)

He has two uniforms, and he’d be hard pressed to say which one he prefers.

Technically they’re distinguished as Class A and Class B uniforms, the former being slightly dressier, slightly more professional, and the latter being geared more towards the more tactical side of things, comfort and freedom of movement and the accomdoation of all his gear. The former makes him look like a police officer. The latter makes him look like a cop.

And some days he wants to be a police officer. Some days he enjoys the formality of it, the staunch correctness of the uniform, with its creased pants and its shiny shoes and its air of consumate togetherness, symbolic of an officer of the law as a servant of the public. The day he’d graduated from the Academy had also been the first day his brothers had seen him in full parade gear, and there’d been some not-unjustified snickering—but there’d also been a certain sense of respect, admiration. Pride. He’d been as proud of himself as they’d been of him, the day he’d finally become a police officer.

But he’s been a police officer for a couple of years now, and it’s been long enough to know that there are days when he  _definitely_  wants to be a cop. Days when he wants the Class B uniform—the one he only wears when it’s going to be a day of serving warrants, checking on parolees, or working the beat in a rough part of town—with its heavier canvas pants, its polyester shirt, built to be layered beneath a tactical vest. He wants boots, heavy and durable and comfortable. He wants a hundred pockets for the entire suite of gear he carries, and he wants to feel like a member of the police  _force_  within the community, even if this means he sets himself apart, makes himself look like an adversary of the community at large.

Scott’s been on the force long enough that he associates the Class A uniform with funerals, with twenty-one gun salutes, and putting colleagues in the ground. The Class B uniform he associates with raids, with being shot at, with the bitter taste of adrenaline and with the gut wrenching twist of fear that still goes along with the scariest parts of this job. He loves this job, both the A and the B sides of it, but there’s darkness that colours each aspect.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ANONYMOUS Prompt:   
> In Part 1, Scott says something about Gordon being a fairly grumpy teenager as well; as a prompt: each of the boys at 16? I love this AU & the writing is fantastic!!
> 
> (by prelude!)

He’s sixteen, and he’s gonna be a cop just like his dad. He’s gonna have a uniform and a beat and a bunch of cop buddies, and he’s gonna make his family proud, just the same way his dad does. He’s gonna serve and protect, be the thin blue line, live up to the family name.  _Officer Tracy_  has a hell of a ring to it, and Scott can’t ever help but puff up a bit with pride when he hears people address his father. He’s gonna enlist in the academy right out of high school, and he’s going to kick the training course right in the ass. He’ll be a cadet for two years, and then he’ll be on the force, bringing home a paycheck that’ll make his part time after school job look as futile as it had felt, for all that he’d known his parents were grateful for the help. He’ll finally be making a damn  _difference_.

* * *

He’s sixteen and if cancer killed his mother, it feels like might just be grief that kills him. The doctors had said that his mother hadn’t felt anything like pain, towards the end, that by the time she was in the hospice, it was mostly the morphine that had brought her life to an end. John’s been thinking about death pretty much ever since his mother first started dying, and with her gone, all he has to hope for is that the way she’d died had been a gentle, easy end to the fight she’d had for life. He stands at his mother’s graveside, with Gordon at his elbow and Alan in his arms, too old and too heavy to hold for this long, but it’s not like that stops him clinging. He’s not even sure Alan really understands, but then, he’s not sure if any of them ever will. It’s not fair, and it makes no sense.

* * *

He’s sixteen, and hockey and football both cost more than they can afford. Both the coaches keep telling him he oughta go for it, casting speculative glances at him as he continues to add weight to the bar, sending both their team captains over to spot for him, make their hopeful cases. He turns them down. The weightroom at school is free, and after class he can spend at least an hour, maybe as many as two, losing himself in the discipline of sets and reps, in the burn of his muscles and the fact that as long as he’s got an excuse to be here, then he doesn’t have to be at home, listening to Dad and Scott screaming at each other about money, and about what Dad does to get it. Sometimes it seems like the worst thing that could’ve happened was for Scott to follow in Dad’s footsteps. It turns out their Dad walks a pretty crooked path.

* * *

He’s sixteen and he’s got a concussion, because he’s fallen on the wrong side of a barbed wire fence, and cracked his head against solid concrete. His arms are scratched and scraped and he thinks his wrist might be broken, but all he can do about any of those things is stare up at the muddy darkness of the starless city sky, and hate himself for being so stupid. He’d just been bored. He’d just wanted to get out of the stupid fucking house, because he’d hated the sound of their grandmother crying softly in her room. He thinks he can hear sirens and he wonders what they belong to. He doesn’t know yet that the security guard, walking his rounds along the perimeter of the warehouse where he’d been trespassing, had seen him fall and hadn’t seen him get up afterward. He doesn’t know that the ambulance that’s been called has been called for him. And when the paramedics show up, he’ll be surprised by how nice they are, how kindly they’ll treat him compared to anyone else.

* * *

He’s sixteen and he’s got his license. He’d had to whine and rage and beg and bitch and carry on about it  _endlessly_ , before he’d managed to get his brothers to get their acts together, to do their goddamn  _jobs_  with respect to their responsibilities as his guardians. Scott had taught him the basics, driving around whatever empty lots met his strict standards and eventually working up to proper practice on the city streets. John had been the one to help him with the written test, had kept after him about studying and told him he couldn’t expect to coast on good test taking skills; that the rules of the road were important and that he needed to really  _know_  them. Virgil had waited patiently with him at the DMV, even when he’d had to go back for a second try at the road test. And Gordon had been the one to intercept the letter with his license in it, to hold it in a clenched fist and jab a finger in Alan’s collarbone, swearing up and down that if he ever had to pull his brother out of a car wreck, there’d be hell to pay beyond the pale of the accident itself.

But,  _finally_ , Alan’s got his license.

Now all he needs is a car.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here is just a whole slew of little prompt ficlets from aki!

**Virgil's Firehouse Family**

 

Bill and Terry drove everyone mad.  It was kind of their thing.

It was never Bill or Terry, always  _and_. They were a matched pair, like two sides of the jaw of life. They sat side by side in the truck, and side by side at the table, and they finished each other’s sentences, and they drove everyone  _mental_.

If it wasn’t the latest pyramid scheme they’d signed up for, it was their latest cooking disaster stinking up the tiny firehouse kitchenette. They nattered away constantly when all you wanted was quiet, and couldn’t be found the second there was cleaning to be done.

But when all the alarms were clanging, and the radio was overlapping waves of disaster, nothing calmed Virgil more than seeing Bill and Terry already in the back of his truck.

Because Bill and Terry were a matched pair, almost telepathic with each other and between them half a century of experience with fire.  They could predict the explosions and the backdraft, will move around any junior fighter, watching their back, keeping them safe as they too learned the ways of the flames. Because Bill and Terry would literally walk into a collapsing building to bring everyone out alive. Because when tech failed and the water wasn’t getting to where it was needed, they’d pull out spanners and duct tape and make it work.

Because when they went out they brought everyone home.

Virgil slammed the door shut on the fire house alarms, picking key words out of the various reports pouring out of the radio.  “You two ready to roll?”

“Hello there, young geezer,” Bill or possibly Terry said.

“Hope you’ve had your beauty sleep, today is going to be a busy day,” said Terry, or possibly Bill.

Virgil laughed despite himself, and turned on the sirens.

* * *

 

**Professor Harold the Skeevy Cafe Customer**

“Head’s up”

Penny blinks, straightening slowly from where she’s been transferring the box of doughnuts into an airtight box.  “What?”

“The Professor Is In,” Moffie says ominously, hunched over to untangle her apron strings.  “And look at that, it’s my break. I’ll be hiding in the alley.”

“Traitor!” Penny calls after her, but quietly, trying not to draw attention.  There’s a laugh, and the heavy alley door clangs shut.

Penny exhales slowly, gathering her wits, dragging out the seconds until she hand to–

The bell dings, loudly, cutting off her last escape.  She walks around the partition from kitchen to counter, plastering a smile on under her nose.  “Good morning, what can I get for you?”

Professor Harold walked the four blocks from campus nearly daily to loiter on the end stool, trying unsubtly to look down the shirts of waitresses. In the end, they’d had to move the small fridge where they kept the milk for the espresso machine–it made for an annoying reach, but at least it meant they didn’t have to crouch down right in his eyeline.

It hadn’t stopped him from returning day after day after day.  “Hello, Pen,” he leers, and she has to fight the urge to cover up her name badge with her hand.  “Usual please.”

“Which is?” It’s the only thing she’s found that hits–pretend he makes no impact on their day, even though Moffie now holds onto her breaks not to deal with him, that they had to move the milk fridge.

His cheery, leery smile falters, just a millimetre.  “Caramel latte with extra hot water.”

Penny’s a tea drinker, but she’s become a coffee snob by virtue of osmosis, and she judges him for his order too. But she can make it quick now, quicker when she doesn’t care about the quality of the coffee pour. Maybe if she makes it badly enough, he’ll find another cafe to harass.  “Here you are. Four fifty, please.”

“And you can keep the change,” he oozes, like fifty cents split four ways means anything.

She waits until he’s slunk out, craning his neck to peer into the kitchen as he passes, but Moffie knows how to hide.  “And you can fuck off,” she mutters, and sets about stripping and cleaning the espresso machine to burn off her angry energy.

* * *

 

**Langstrom Fischler the world's worst landlord.**

“That will come out of your bond.”

Scott has been on nights for a month and more of those were doubles than singles.  He should already be halfway back to the precinct, but their  _bastard_  of a landlord has kept him waiting.

Right now, Langstrom Fischler is inspecting the apartment while carefully not touching anything. The kitchen window seal ripped out in the last storm of the winter, and despite Virgil’s best attempts, the hairline crack has continued to reach from bottom right to top left.

“No, it won’t. Because we texted you five months ago that the storm damaged the window.”

They learned the hard way not to call, but to text, to get it in writing. They write notes to each other on the fridge, whoever is up at 3am gets the honour.  By the time Fischler sees the text, they’re back at work and can’t take the call, forcing him to text back in return.

It’s the only reason he’s here now.  “Anyway, the window will hold.” Scott’s also learned to pick his battles. “The shower will not. The crack in the lining means moisture will get in the walls if it’s not fixed.”

Scott impatiently waits for Fischler to hum and har before breaking out John’s research, play their ace.  “We found a second hand unit liner on eBay.  Looks in one piece. You buy it, we’ll fit it.  Can’t get any cheaper than that.”

Even so, Fischler waits a week to drop it off, leaving Scott and Virgil and Gordon to shower at the depot and John and Alan to shower at Penny’s.

“He’s a dick.”

Scott can only laugh as he wrings out the cloth into the bucket and gentle runs it over Grandma’s hand.  “Preaching to the choir, Grandma.”

“You boys deserve a new bathroom, you work all hours, and that place is a mould trap.”

“Choir, preaching to it.”

Grandma’s laugh turns into a coughing fit.  “Leave the bucket, Scotty, I can take it from here.”

“Aw,” Scott faux-pouts.  “But I so rarely get to hold hands with a beautiful woman anymore.” He squeezes her fingers and drops the clothe into the bucket. Grandma’s smile is too sad to bear. He averts his eyes as she draws him close to kiss the top of his head.  “Thanks, Grandma.”

There’s a sniff, then a pause. “I think, kiddo, you need that bucket more than I do.”

It felt good to laugh.

* * *

 

**Gordon + Conrad the Rookie**

Gordon was never this young.

“What’s so funny, boss?”

“Just laughing at the lies I tell myself,” Gordon replies, taking the corner nice and easy.  This is just a routine transfer, no need for all the bells and whistles.  The sun was shining, and it was a glorious day for a drive.  “So how you finding like on the wide bloody line, kid?”

“Would it be creepy to say I’m enjoying it?”

Gordon smiles.  “Naw, I getcha. It’s blood and screaming and too freaking gory, but-”

“People stay alive when you do your job right.”

Gordon pulls up at the stop light, spares Conrad a glance. He sits up, a little forward, always an eager little puppy.  “Maybe we should put that on the recruitment posters.”

Conrad shrugged. “I always thought they should put it at the end of horror movies.  Like ‘if you made it to the end of this field, emergency medicine may be for you.’”

Gordon was still laughing as they pulled up at the hospital doors.

* * *

**Virgil vs the Firefighter's Annual Pinup Calendar**

Virgil walked in to a room full of wolf whistles, and turned to walk straight out again.

“Oh no you don’t,” Penny laughed, pressing her hand in the centre of his chest and gently but firmly pushing Virgil back into the apartment.  “This is your party!”

“What party?”

She turned to show him the bakery box in her other hand.  “Your party. Come on, in you go.”

Virgil walked past the closed doors into the living room, crowded with all of them in there are once.  “Come on, V, Scott’s been holding out on us until you got here.”

Virgil dropped his bag and looked Scott in the eye.  “Name your price.”

Scott was nearly cackling.  “Nothing you can afford.”

Alan leaned into inspect the mix of random baked goods left over from the cafe.  “Any peppermint crunches?”

“Sorry, darling, everyone loves those,” she turned the box.  “I did manage to save you a caramel muffin though.”

Alan snatched it up and slid backwards into Grandma’s range.  She whapped his head lightly and he scowled.  “Thank you Penny.”

Scott cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to celebrate the miracle that is the annual charity Sexy Fireman’s Calendar.

“That’s not what it’s call-”

“It is in this house, big guy.  Or should I call you Mr June?”

Virgil blushed to his belly button as Scott let the calendar drop open.  Grandma’s low whistle made him wince.  “Ok, come on, get it out of your systems.”

He wasn’t expecting the “hubba hubba” from Penny.  The room dissolved into half a dozen conversations, laughter, and dirty jokes.

Virgil waited for his moment, pilfering a muffin and the calendar before retreating to the bathroom.

“Steam it up in there big guy!”

Virgil bit into the muffin to free up his middle finger, and firmly shut the door.

 

* * *

 

**John + Penny + "Saved you a bagel" + "Brought you a flower"**

 

If it were any other guy, Gordon might be worried.

Penny’s laughing at something John said as he waits for his late night snack to finish toasting, her hands flexing as she expertly weaves together the handful of daisies he’d given her the second he’d gotten home.

As the toaster pops for the second time (it usually needs three presses to get brown), she lifts up the daisy crown she’s woven onto her head.

He pokes at it, tilting it offside.  “There. Perfect.”

She rolls her eyes and turns to Gordon as the toaster pops again. “Gordon, darling?”

He looks her over slowly, taking his sweet time.  “Yep. Definitely perfect.” He reaches out to straighten her crown anyway and she ducks under his arms to kiss his neck.

Behind her, Gordon catches John’s wink, half the left-over bagel already jammed into his mouth, as he beats a hasty escape out the door.

Gordon smiles and pulls Penny close enough to knock that daisy crown clear across the room.

* * *

**Alan + John vs "If you'd just try harder"**

Scott gets snippy and Gordon gets loud.  Grandma sighs and accepts and Virgil just retreats and watches.

But when John’s upset with him, he  _stares_. Alan hates it; he feels too much like a bug on a scope’s slide, like his every flaw is being analyzed.  “Alan-”

“Don’t say it, John. Don’t fucking say it.”

“Hey! Language!”

“Screw you.  You swan in and judge me-”

“Alan, it’s just one class. You can pick it up over the summer, and still have time for whatever shenanigans you like to get up to.”

Alan tries not to squirm, feels his stomach burn with acid. “I’m just dumb ok.”

“Alan, if you just tried harder-” Alan cuts him off with a yell, ripping the report card out of John’s hand and tearing it up angrily.  “Alan!”

“I do try, ok. I try so  _fucking hard_  and it never matters.  I still failed, we’re still broke as fuck, dad still left.  Nothing  _matters_  so why bother!”

“Alan!”

He ignores John, slamming the door hard enough to propel him down the stairs and  _away_.

 

* * *

 

**Gordon gets bitten on the job - comes home after a long shift to ask Penny if she'd rather he turned into a werewolf or a vampire.**

Gordon has eight teeth marks, four to a side, wrapped around his forearms.  He can see where the incisors bit deeper than the rest.

He can also feel where his tetanus update went in, and a blood sample went out, and the gnawing hole in his belly where his missed meal break would have gone. But he had a choice of barely edible hospital commissary food and a bus home, or a ride home with a nurse he knows and Penny.

It’s an easy choice.

“Hey honey, I’m home.”

She comes out, wiping her hands on a dishrag. “Honey? I’m - Gordon, your arm!”

He looks down at the white bandages wrapped around his arm.  “Yeah. Someone decided the best way to thank the person pulling you out from drowning in a pile of your own vomit was to say it with fangs.”

“Are you-”

“I’m  _fine_.  But I have a question for you?  Which would you prefer to date? A werewolf or a vampire? Because vampires have that sparkly thing, to be true.  But werewolves are all whips and chains, and they’d always know the time of the month.”

Penny laughs, relieved and exasperated, and hooks her dish cloth around his neck to reel him in.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Self Indulgent Cat Stuff" and aki again <3

John was grabbing some air when he first heard the mewling.

There’s no-one else in the alley, though John glanced around to be sure. Setting aside his steaming mug of peppermint tea, John got down on all fours. It was worth the dirty palms to see a pair of shining eyes blinking back at him. “Well, hello.”

The kitten mewled at John, wiggling back against the wall.

“No, it’s ok. Come here little guy. Girl. Cat.” John reached under the dumpster, flinching as the cat hissed and took a warning swipe. “Ok, ok, have it your way.”

He scowled at his palms and brushed then on the leg of his pants before resuming his seat on the step, mug in hand. But now he was aware of an audience, and he kept still as the kitten crept out from under the safety of the dumpster, investigating this interloper.

“Hello again. Oh, you want this?” He lowered the mug, telegraphing his movements for the wary kitty. She’s scruffy but not skinny, and John assumed she might belong to one of the apartments above the row of shops on the street.

The cat sniffed the steam, then took an experimental lap.

“Hey!”

She just mewled again, plopping on her butt next to John on the sun-warmed stoop to start licking her butt.

“Charming,” he said drily, considering his mug and whether the cat germs would be worth it. But his shoulders dropped and unlocked as the cat slid to her side, pressing into John’s thigh. He touched her tentatively, black fur warm and surprisingly soft, stroking slowly as she started to purr. 

Over the weeks she gets bigger, filling out and starting to fit her paws and ears. Sometimes she’s not there, and John doesn’t look for her.

Much.

It’s late enough to be early when the metal door to the stairs closes behind him, the electronic lock buzzing softly in the quiet air. He’s not even sat down when she comes out of the shadows, her whiskers twitching and a brrrt? noise of interrogation.

“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses,”he chuckled, reaching into his pocket before settling down. “Busy night in there, Eos? How’s life on the streets?”

She head-butted his knee, and he laughed, feeding her a few scraps of deli meat he’d saved from his sandwich, hours before. “Greedy, slow down.” She just kept going until she was licking the pad of his finger.

“All gone, sorry,” he murmured, turning his hand to let her press into his palm, guiding his pats. “You wanna hear what my idiot brother did tonight? Spoiler alert, it involves a building on fire and an exit out of a second storey window.”

Eos mewped and leapt up to circle his lap, once, twice, before settling down with a rumbling purr. John stroked her fur smooth for a moment before picking up his tea. “So we get a fire call,” he begins, unburdening his stresses as the first golden rays of dawn broke over the horizon.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PROMPT: "more about penny handling the letches and creeps at the cafe"
> 
> prelude this time!

Penelope had pointed out, early in her employ, that while the words “Blue Bottle” in the title “The Bluebottle Cafe” would’ve referred to the charming choice of assorted vintage cobalt glass vases and vessels that adorn the surfaces of the winsome little coffee spot— _Bluebottle_ in fact refers to corpse flies. Miss Edmunds had muttered some uncharitable and unlikely threat about Penelope making better use of her fancy education elsewhere—and hadn’t sprung to get someone to repaint the sign or reprint the menus.

And the insects that swarm into the more clandestine corners of the bustling cafe are the worst sort of maggots. The choice of staff and the design of their uniforms has made The Bluebottle Cafe into a bit of a hot spot for a certain type of patron.

The trouble is in no small part due to their proximity to the local college. By and large their clientele are broadly inoffensive, but Miss Edmunds’ hiring practices skew towards waitresses who are young, meek, and pretty. Penelope had been all of the above when she’d first been hired, new in the country with nothing but the clothes on her back, desperate for work, and completely inexperienced in waitressing. She recognizes, retroactively, that there might have been something rather predatory in Miss Edmunds’ willingness to hire her—but a job is a job, and if Penelope is still young and pretty, any meekness has since been burnished away. There are six other waitresses on staff, half of them younger than Penelope, and all equally as hard up for money. It’s a deadend sort of a job, but if she needs it anyway, then the least she can do is position herself as the unofficial advocate for the rest of the staff.

The girls have long since learned not to complain to Miss Edmunds, when some creep not-so-subtly tries to aim the camera of their phone up the bottom of a too-short skirt, or when errant hands wander into places they’re not supposed to. They’ve all heard the same lecture about how foot-traffic from the local campus is too important to the business for them to risk getting blacklisted for any reason—by students in well-connected fraternities or professors with tenure alike. Miss Edmunds tends to side with patrons over staff. Penelope does no such thing.

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago—her causes had been bigger and bolder and grander, galas and benefit balls, fundraisers and charity actions. Her advocacy of late has shrunk down to the rights of half a dozen young women, all of whom need this job just as badly as she does. All of whom will put up with more than they’ll tell her, out of sheer desperation.

One of these days, a customer will get far enough out of line that the tray Penelope hoists to shoulder height will carry more than just four tall to-go orders of ice cold water, filled silently behind the counter as she’d watched poor stammering Gretchen try to take the order of a leering trio of frat boys. One of these days there’ll be four americanos lined up like dutiful soldiers atop the tray, and she’ll scald the skin off whatever bastard dares to cross one of her girls. War may be hell, but Penelope begins to believe waitressing is worse. At least in a war neither side is expected to smile prettily and put up with the oncoming assault.

But for now, balancing her tray, she saunters over in the direction of the offending table, smile wide and eyes bright as she feels a spell of tremendously unladylike of clumsiness coming on.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Scott the Good Cop + Ava and Lettie Sullivan
> 
>  
> 
> prelude again!

An off-duty cop is still a cop.

And one of Scott’s most vivid memories of his father happened not while his dad was in uniform and officially on the job, but on one of his rare nights off, after he’d picked Scott up from soccer practice, and they were driving home through the sort of solidly middle class suburb that they’d used to call home.

Scott had been too busy trying to work out a way to count the number of black pentagons on his soccer ball, but he remembers the way the car’s brakes had slammed and there had been a terrible crunching, screeching, tearing sound from the interection in front of them. His dad had been out of the car almost as quickly as the accident had happened, pinning Scott to his seat with a sharp, no-nonsense order to “ _Stay. There_.”

He remembers being in the back seat of the car, straining against his seatbelt as he’d leaned forward, trying to peer over the dash for a better look at what was happening out the front windshield. It had been just dusk, and the rain that had ended soccer practice early had left the streets slick and treacherous. The windshield was too blurry with rainfall for him to be able to see, and he remembers being young enough to pout about it when he’d heard sirens start singing behind him, that he hadn’t been able to *see* anything.

Then the passenger’s side door had opened, and his father had reappeared, ushering two kids out of the rain, to huddle together in the front seat, wide-eyed and tearful, but both too shaken and startled to actually be crying.

At the sight of two blond heads belonging to two small children, Scott’s immediate instinct had been that his Dad had procured Alan and Gordon from somewhere—but the ages weren’t actually quite right. The youngest was older than Alan, and the elder was nearer to Scott’s age, though smaller.

“Say hi, Scotty,” Dad had called into the backseat, calm and comforting. “We’ve just got a couple guests for a couple minutes, while everything gets sorted out.”

The clever rejoinder of “Hi, Scotty!” had earned him a dazed and fragile giggle from the elder boy, and a wide-eyed stare from the younger. Scott had immediately volunteered his soccerball to the cause of distracting the poor pair of kids, who clearly had no idea what they’d just been through.

Scott remembers his dad, climbing back into the driver’s seat after it had all been sorted out, soaked to the skin from crouching in the rain outside the passenger side door the entire time. And he remembers how proud Jeff had been of how readily and willingly Scott had tried to help.

The accident in the intersection in front of him, a full twenty years later, is a lot less ugly than the one that made such an impression in his childhood. Scott’s off-duty, just like his dad had been, and he’s not even the first officer on scene—he hadn’t seen this wreck happen, and there’s already a black and white cruiser warding the scene, two of his coworkers curtailing traffic and mediating the shouting match between the two drivers. It’s a fender bender, nothing too bad. There’s an ambulance lurking near the edge of the scene, but they look to be packing up.

But a pair of pale faces peek out the back window of the hunter green SUV belonging to the man in the hawaiian print shirt, and Scott’s already pulled over into the nearest parking lot. He climbs out of his car, keeps a sensible distance until one of the officers notices him—Rhys, blithely directing traffic, while poor Dobbs has to keep things from escalating between a middle-aged suburban father and the harried business woman all but shrieking at him about what her lawyer’s going to do with the footage off her dashcam—and gives him a nod and a wave of permission to approach. Scott gestures at the back of the , and Rhys flashes him a thumbs-up.

“Hi,” Scott says, smiling as he approaches the rolled down window, and sketches a little salute at the two little girls therein. “I’m Officer Tracy. You guys okay?”

A pair of silent nods and a hasty attempt from the younger girl to wipe her tears away with the back of her sleeve. Scott leans casually against the doorframe and keeps up the reassuring smile, as he says, “So, which one of you gets to tell your mom why Dad’s in trouble tonight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also if any of you on Ao3 want to hit us up with some prompts in the comments, I can't make any promises, but maybe something will spark!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this enough virgil for ya'll? ;)
> 
> by the inimitable and best-beloved [forsty!](https://forsty.tumblr.com/) <3 <3 <3

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh, all right, here's a little bit more. with love from: prelude <3
> 
> Here's that two story fall referenced in the kittycat chapter!

Virgil is fine.

Caveat: Virgil is fine for having fallen (caveat: jumped) out the (caveat: second story) window of a (caveat: burning) building.

But nothing’s broken. He's pretty sure. It’s not even the first window he’s ever jumped out of, he’s drilled for personal bailout scenarios plenty of times. And he’d done it right, or anyway, not _that_ wrong. He’d hit the ground, and then he’d been on the ground, and then Bill-and-Terry had come bounding heroically over to drag him bodily clear of the building and its associated blaze. It had all been over too quickly for him to have a chance to self-evaluate how his technique had been. And _then_ they hadn’t let him get up, insisted he stay still while they called one of the EMTs over. They’re just being cautious. He’d probably do the same. But he doesn’t think he hit his head, and even though what was supposed to be a roll upon landing end up being more like a sprawl—he doesn’t _feel_ injured. And he’s pretty sure his colleagues are taking advantage of the situation.

Especially considering the paramedic they’ve summoned.

“Hiya, dipshit! Guess who’s 'bouta be the ugliest part of my day?”

Virgil was doing slightly better before Gordon arrived.

It’s early into Gordon’s shift for the day, so he’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and cuts a sprightly, compact figure as he pops out of the back of the ambulance that his partner’s pulled up into the corner of the parking lot. Two additional fire trucks have come around to this side of the structure, and their warding bulk provides a bulwark against the gradually diminishing inferno of the squat suburban office building, from which Virgil has lately made an undignified exit.

Fires are never _good_. But some fires are better than others, and this fire certainly could’ve been worse. By the time his crew’s engines had come rolling up to the building, the entire staff were already evacuated, a formal headcount had been performed twice, checked and rechecked by appointed fire wardens and provided promptly, along with a file containing a map of the building. It’s a small company, only thirty odd people to account for, and only two of those had been near enough to where the fire started to have come away with any kind injury, and even then just some minor smoke inhalation.

If the staff had been surprisingly well prepared for the event of a fire—well, it turns out it’s because their workplace is a bit of a tinderbox. The offices are on the storey above a warehouse floor, stuffed to the brim with assorted paper products, the inventory of a distribution and shipping center for a manufacturer even further outside the city. There’s no salvaging it, but by now they’ve got it contained.

Gordon’s got his jump bag slung from one shoulder, and an unmistakable smugness to his swagger as he saunters over, announcing, “Clark and Sontag already took off with all the innocent civilians, so now _I’m_ stuck with the fuckwitted industry professional who damn well should’ve _known better_ than to _jump out a goddamn window_.”

A certain amount of hazing is to be expected whenever he happens across either of his brothers in the course of a workday. It’s mostly in good humour. It’s also at least partially an evaluation of his current mental state, probing towards any indication of a head injury. Virgil’s not about to give him the satisfaction, even laid out flat on his back and prohibited from moving by two of his superiors, with more years of experience between the pair of them then he’s spent alive on this planet.

Still. “Well, Gordon, it was out the window or through the floor. And I _know_ how to jump out of a goddamn window.”

Gordon scoffs. “Yeah? Let’s consult our judges. William? Terrence? Outta ten, how would you rate my dumbass brother and his window jumping skills?”

Bill flashes a frown and a thumbs-down. Terry nods his agreement and adds, “Room for improvement.”

The worst part of having three other brothers in associated emergency trades is that his coworkers are getting _familiar_. Even when Virgil’s not working, that doesn’t mean the people he works with aren’t running into his brothers.

Of course, the reverse is also true. “Conrad,” Virgil calls from the ground, as he catches the sound of his little brother’s partner, slamming the ambulance door. “Back your bus up and run him over for me, wouldja?”

Conrad’s usually easy to flip, but not today. Today he’s dutifully Gordon’s sidekick, though he sketches an apologetic little salute as he joins his mentor. “Can’t, boss, sorry. He’s the guy signing off on my evaluations every night, and I won’t make EMT-Intermediate if he doesn’t.”

“And don’t you forget it, rookie.”

Virgil’s been deposited by his colleagues on the strip of grass that bounds in the edge of the parking lot, and he’s _fine_ , _really_ , but Gordon’s bag still lands on the ground at his feet with a thud, and a pair of bright blue gloves materialize from a pocket. There’s a snap of latex against flesh as these are pulled on. Despite everything, Gordon _is_ here to do a job, and once the gloves come on, a perceptible change comes over him.

“We got 'im,” he tells Bill-And-Terry, who give him a nod and a thumbs-up, respectively, and then go back to where they can be more useful. Deep down Virgil still believes that eventually he will, too, but he hasn’t yet caught the slight hardness in his brother’s eyes, nor noticed the way Conrad’s briskly and efficiently unloading the contents of the kit that’s been dropped at his side.

“Now,” Gordon begins, still brusque, and though he’s crouched nearby, he hasn’t knelt like Conrad has. though his hands are gloved, he doesn’t make a move to actually engage. Conrad’s waiting, ready and attentive, but instead Gordon addresses his brother, “you’ve got about as much EMT training as my boy Connie here, so you know that what happens next is important and necessary, and _therefore_ you’re not gonna give me any of the patented Virgil G. Tracy brand of _bullshit_ about how you’re ‘ _fine, really_ ’. Maybe you are, but there’s only one way to know. So you’re gonna let my rookie go through the motions, for his sake as much as yours. We clear, V-card?”

It’s very clever, really, framing this as a teachable moment for Conrad. It’s also some unexpectedly sharp insight into just exactly what Virgil would’ve done, so he has no choice but to acquiesce, “Crystal, G-string.”

“Good,” Gordon answers, and just for the barest, briefest moment, there’s a softening of his expression, a way the light catches his eyes, a flicker of sympathy and concern. They’re brothers, after all.

And so Virgil has no choice but to crack a grin and reassure him— “I’m fine, though. Really.”

With an exasperated sigh, Gordon just rolls his eyes.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ANONYMOUS PROMPT 
> 
> Absolutely love the Rent Day Blues Universe and would like to offer a prompt: Virgil sacrificed his mother’s piano so the family could have the money. Years later, none of them knows that he still plays. Until they catch him playing in secret.
> 
> by aki!!

It’s been years since he heard the sweet dulcet tones of hammers and strings. They had sold their mother’s Blüthner the week before they’d moved the last time, from the house with the scrubby yard into this apartment.

They couldn’t lift it up the stairs, and had no room to put it besides. And the purchase price bought Grandma an appointment with a specialist. In his head, Virgil doesn’t begrudge the sale, to a family with a daughter so excited to get a piano of her own.

She had pinky-swore to take good care of it. It was enough that Virgil didn’t have a little cry until later.

Just like he had pinky-promised his own mother, just days before the end. Her fingers had been dry, and papery, and cold, callouses faded away, and Virgil had to be careful as he gently wrapped his finger around hers. “I’ll practice. Just like you taught me. Every day.”

He’d saved his tears for later then too.

But Virgil keeps his promises. The length of stuck-together cardboard, blaring the benefits of domestic fire extinguishers on the flipside, had no action, nothing but pressed-flat deadness under his fingers. But he’d drawn the shape and size of keys exactly across the corrugated cardboard backing, a perfect match for a long-gone Blüthner. Even as his hands had grown, developed callouses that had nothing to do with music, he’d stretched them every day, humming the chords cardboard couldn’t play.

The ballroom is mercifully untouched by the fire, just a lingering haze in the air and the scent of smoke that was no doubt already seeping into the rich soft furnishings.

The grand piano on the low stage gleamed in the defused life. “Steinway looks fine,” McCready noted, dusting her hands together, her shoulders back despite the heavy tank still strapped to her shoulders.

“Bösendorfer,” Virgil corrected without thinking, already drifting over.

“Gesundheit,” McCready grinned. “You know pianos?”

“My…I used to play. Long ago.”

McCready gestured at the stage. “Well, the building manager is outside melting down at Dobbs about what was lost and what was saved. Better make a full report.”

Virgil tugs his gloves off, jams them in his coat pocket as he approaches slowly, looking over the polished lid. In the reflection, he looks tired.

But the middle C is a pure, joyous tone. Virgil shifts, resting both hands on the keys. Beethoven may have been cliché, but Pathétique from Sonata No. 8 was always one of his favourites. He’d been drawn to minor keys, even from the very beginning.

He still had the sheet music safe in the fire locker under the bed at home, his mother’s neat annotations spilling over the margins.

McCready was one of his favourites; she didn’t clap when he finished, didn’t comment at the way he had to sit for a while after the last note had faded, head bowed.

“Right,” she just said as he finally rose, pulling his gloves back on. “Next room?”

“Yes Chief,” Virgil said, clear and brisk and calm.

He could cry later.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more free floating, disconnected virgil. i believe some charring was requested.
> 
>  
> 
> by prelude!

It’s a journey of increments.

First he’d had to make it back to awareness, and that felt like it took  _forever_. A big inviting oblivion still lurks behind him, pressing at the back of his skull, haloing the edges of his thoughts. But he’s forced himself out of it once, and he’s not about to slip backwards again, even if the world he’s woken to seems like it’s been carved out of pain.

Consciousness achieved, the next step had been to struggle upright, but his head had been ringing and limbs had been heavy and resistant. It takes him a minute to realize it’s the weight of the PPE that’s  _probably_  saved his life, even if it’s another sixty-odd pounds of himself to haul off the ground. Even just getting to his knees had taken a titanic amount of effort. He’s strong, but right now he doesn’t feel nearly strong enough.

From his knees he’d needed to get back to his feet and that had taken leaning his weight against the same wall he’s pretty sure he’s just been slammed into, by the way the entire right side of his body had screamed in protest at the effort. He can barely remember where he  _is_ , let alone what’s happened, or how. He staggers against the rough brick of the wall as he stands, nearly collapses to his knees again before he catches himself, stopping to attempt a few deep breaths. Air hisses through the mask that covers his face, and a radio whines and crackles in his ear, though no voices cut through the static.

Wherever he is, there’s a lot of fire. Things are creaking and groaning and crumbling overhead, and it doesn’t seem safe to stay. At his back there’s the flickering ocher glow of the inferno that’s brought him here, (wherever here is), but Virgil’s in no state to stay and fight it. Ahead of him, along the wall he’d been thrown against, there’s a stairway, leading up into darkness. It seems strange that it would be dark at the top of a stairway, when Virgil has the distinct impression that he’s underground somewhere, but it’s also the only place he’s got to go.

It’s only a few feet to the bottom step of the staircase, but it seems to take ages to shuffle even a few feet forward, still leaning heavily on the wall. When he has to pick his feet up to start climbing the steps, he stumbles and only just catches himself on the bannister. Climbing stairs is even harder than trying to stumble across level ground had been, especially with the heat of the fire beginning to affect the wood beneath his feet. It feels somehow taut and tense with the addition of his weight as he shifts one foot clumsily after the other.

He makes it only three steps upwards before his right knee gives out and he hears his voice in his own ears, feeding back into his radio as he cries out in pain. He lands on his hands and knees and that haloing darkness makes an unwelcome reappearance—when he feels the staircase suddenly shuddering beneath him, the rapid two-step of approaching footsteps. A pair of heavily gloved hands seize his shoulders, and then the pain of being hauled bodily up the stairs overwhelms him, and oblivion wins out.

* * *

The world is a riot of colour and light when he comes back to it, taking a greedy gulp of oxygen from the mask that’s been strapped over his face, wondering at the lightness of his limbs as he tries to move, now that he seems to have been released from the confines of his gear. This attempt is immediately curtailed by a hand on his shoulder, and quite suddenly Virgil seems to recall the totality of the scenario he’s just been extracted from, and first and foremost remembers his partner—

“Hors—” he starts, but this attempt at sudden urgency is stifled by the mask and then interrupted by a fit of coughing, which sends pain radiating through his ribs. He doesn’t feel like he should be coughing—didn’t think he’d caught any smoke—but maybe it’s not the smoke that’s doing it.

The hand on his shoulder gives a reassuring squeeze. “Right here. Easy there, Chief! Well, no, not  _Chief_ , obviously. You’re not the Chief. That’s McCready. Chief  _McCready_ , not Chief Tracy. Still! Got a bit of a ring to it, even if I do say so, Tracy. Don’t you think?  _Chief Tracy_. Yeah. That’s not so bad, that. Don’t let anyone else catch wind of me calling you  _that_  though, when you just got blasted clear off your feet when the hot water heater blew. Lucky you were turned ‘round, or it could’ve been a whole lot worse.”

In spite of everything, Virgil can’t help a grin at that, and leans back against what he realizes is a gurney in the back of the ambulance on scene. This seems like a waste of an ambulance, until he realizes that his arm is in a sling across his chest and the housefire that had begun in the basement has now engulfed the entire structure, framed by the open back doors of the ambulance. His heart sinks and the dismay must tell on his features, and he tries to ask, “Wha—”“

"Abandoned,” he reminds Virgil. “Moldering old firetrap in a halfway-populated neighbourhood, some local kids were screwing around with firecrackers in the basement. No one hurt but you. There’s a couple more trucks on the way. Boys in blue’ll get you out of here as soon as another bus arrives for back up.”

For as much as he hurts and as lousy as he feels, he must not be in too bad shape, actually, because there are no paramedics in sight. Just Horse, who is admittedly an EMT in his own right, and who seems to anticipate Virgil’s next question, as his gaze flits around the inside of the ambulance, wanting to know— “Who—”

“ _Not_  your brother. He’s an  _annoying_  little shit, though, ain’t he? Your brother? What’s his name again, Gonzo? Gonzo. Had him roll up on a call once, fall-from-a-height. Just  _jabbered_  the whole way through, gave this poor kid the third degree like it was Letterman or something. Never mind about how the kid had a concussion, just jabber jabber jabber. Lord. Don’t know how you stand him.”

Virgil finally manages to get a word in edgewise with his partner—who  _isn’t_  Gordon, but who sometimes has a certain familiar way about him—“I don’t mind,” he says sincerely, through the hiss of oxygen, still flooding his mask. “I’m used to it.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ANONYMOUS PROMPT
> 
> Only if you have the time x RDB - Virgil talking with Alan about anything
> 
> Aki Again!

“Smells good.”  It’s more words out of Alan than Virgil’s had in days, and it takes all Virgil’s willpower not to turn around and be excited and scare Allie away again.

“Yeah. Bill and Terry won some raffle at their bar, and gave me all the vegetables from the prize pack.”  Bill and Terry were meat-and-potato men, and the prize pack included leeks and yams and sunchokes and celeriac other things Bill or possibly Terry called “frou-frou fancy nonsense.”

Virgil was more than happy to take it all of their hands.  He’d sat on the bus the whole way home with his nose in the box, inhaling smells that weren’t smoke.

Alan’s leaning on the thin divider between the kitchen space and the living space, arms and ankles both crossed, but he’s looking with as much interest as he shows for anything these days at what Virgil’s doing.

Virgil has pretty much every pot, pan, and bowl they own in play.  He’s currently slicing carrots and tipping the pieces into Penny’s tea cup for safe keeping.  Their fridge is tiny, and he can’t take out the milk, or grandma’s special meds that need to be kept cold, so the only option is to prepare it all now.

There’s room in the station freezer, and he’s pretty sure the fridge in the dispatcher’s break room has a freezer too.  He knows better than to send food to the precinct; it would just vanish before Scott could get to it.

But they’re not here and Alan is.  “So-” he finishes tipping the last bits of carrot into the cup with a flourish.  “I am making stew, and soup, and….” Virgil held up what he’d found in the bottom of the box.  “As soon as I figure out what this is, I am making something with this too.”

Alan shifts back onto both feet, and Virgil inhales, ready for Alan to drift off back to wherever he goes, moment over.  But Alan surprises him, steps forward, takes the weird thing from Virgil’s hands.  “Oh. It’s a lotus root. Our teacher in home ec. showed us these. She grows them in her garden.”

Virgil hadn’t realized Alan’s gotten so tall, but he puts that thought aside. “You know what to do with them.”

Alan shrugs. “Stir fry?”

“Perfect. We have carrots and broccoli and…” Virgil waved at the mess of bowls and cups and plates. “Well, grab a handful of each.”

Alan takes a step back. “You want me to cook?”

“I have no idea what a lotus root is.  I trust you.” Virgil’s already turning back to his chopping board, but working with fire gives you eyes in the back of your head, and he senses as much as sees Alan’s eyes widen.  “Lemme just make some room here for you.”

“It’s ok,” Alan murmurs. “I can work on the stove.”

The house smells of curries and stews and spicy, filling things as one by one brothers come home to be handed a bowl from where Alan has taken up station by the kitchen.  It’s a little salty, but Virgil would rather roast his toes that give Alan criticism, and John and Gordon and even Penny ooh and ahh and make loud slurping noises from the couch.

Scott’s the last one home, and he laughs when he sees Alan. “You’re cooking?” he asks, with just the wrong tone of incredulousness.

The spoon clatters on the counter, and the front door slams before Virgil can draw breath. He puts his knife down carefully and picks up the bowl Alan made for Grandma specially. He doesn’t have the energy for a fight right now.

“Scott? You  _fucking_ moron,” he is all he says tightly as he brushes past to go share what Alan made for Grandma.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ANONYMOUS:  
> I don't know if you're still doing prompts, but if are... Injured John? Maybe he gets clipped by a car or something on his way to a shift and has to call it in and his brother(s) arrive to help him? Thanks!
> 
> (now! I know you haven’t asked for a rewrite of S1E08 in the RDB verse, but i’m afraid that’s precisely what you’re getting.)
> 
> by prelude!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is also a test to see what happens if I try to put one of these in here out of chronological order.

“My brother knows how to jump out a  _window_. From at  _least_  a couple storeys up, or so he says, anyway. I remember telling you that story. I’ve never seen him do it, I’ve only heard about it afterward. Apparently he didn’t do it right; sprained his ankle. Gordon gave him hell.”

John informs the cat at the far end of the branch of this fact, nonchalant, as though the pair of them aren’t about fourteen feet in the air, which is further than John would like to jump, even if he had the first idea of how to stick the landing. Falling is the easy part.

The dispatch office backs up onto the river that cuts through town, though not one of the nicer parts of the river. There’s still a little scrubby bit of embankment behind the complex, a few haphazard picnic tables on the top of the bank, and a handful of trees trailing down the slope, doing their best and failing, as evidenced by their scraggling grey limbs—which hadn’t looked  _that_  hard to climb. And hadn’t been, to be fair. As he and Eos have mutually discovered, it’s not the climbing that’s the tricky part. It’s all getting rather philosophical up here.

“When people call  _me_  about cats up trees, I send the fire department to prevent  _them_  from going up any trees after any cats. That’s a secret about my job. It’s easier to get cats out of trees than people. You know, if you have a fire truck. Or even just a ladder. Or have climbed a tree more recently than like fifteen years ago and can still remember how to get down.” John pauses, rueful, and then adds, “I always wondered what sort of moron goes up a tree after a cat. That’s the  _other_  secret—about 90% of the time, you get your own damn selves back down.”

Of course, the most sensible thing to do, even if one has already blown the chance to do what was formerly the most sensible thing to do, and climbed a tree in pursuit of a cat, would be to call the appropriate authorities in order to safely get back down. And even if he’ll never hear the end of it from whatever coworker he calls or whichever branch of the emergency service is summoned to his rescue, John still absolutely  _would_  call 911—if his phone hadn’t fallen out of his pocket in the process of climbing the stupid tree, in pursuit of the stupid cat.

The screen’s cracked (that’s not new) and turned off, and staring forlornly up at him from where it’s nestled amidst the gnarly roots of the stubborn old tree. Even if he can’t tell the time for sure, he knows it’s past the beginning of his shift. He hopes they start to wonder where he is, and sooner rather than later, though they’ll probably call before they come looking. And even if they came looking, no one’s likely to look around the back of the building. He’s been up here for nearly fifteen minutes by this point. His had been the earliest shift, and so it’s right around dawn. By the lightness creeping into the sky, he can tell that morning’s nearer than he’d prefer, and sighs to himself.

“I’m late for work now. When I don’t check in, they’ll know something’s wrong,” he informs Eos, because of  _course_  it’s Eos. There are plenty of alley cats around the office, but the stupid black shorthair with the white smudges on her face and paws is the only one he’d climb a stupid tree for. She’s the only one around to hear it when he laments, “I only stopped to feed you. I only meant to look for a couple minutes when I couldn’t  _find_  you. I didn’t think you’d have gone up a  _tree_ of all places. What’s with that? You’re an  _alley_  cat. This is not your area. I’m very disappointed.”

Usually he sees her on his way into the communications center. Today he hadn’t, and that wouldn’t normally have been that far out of the normal.  _Normally_ John would’ve let her be and looked for her on his lunchbreak, but he’d had a can of tuna in his bag that he’d wanted to put on offer, especially since he’d had a few days off, and thus it had been a few days since he’d seen her last. He’s watched her grow from tiny kitten to smallish cat, and despite his equal measure of certainty that she can take care of herself, since he’s at least partly responsible for her continued existence, he feels it’s his duty to look out for her. As much as he can, at least.

“I’m  _never_  gonna hear the end of this,” he tells her aloud, conversationally. She hasn’t even done him the credit of coming any closer from where she perches towards the skinnier end of the branch he’s perched upon, trying to coax her closer. He’d been about to climb back down, about to head inside and call someone better suited to de-treeing a cat—when he’d discovered that, no, actually, that wasn’t quite possible. Actually it’s quite a lot further down than it had looked from the ground, and with the way the embankment falls away and drops steeply towards the river, failing to keep his feet after even a  _good_ (unlikely) landing, would probably send him tumbling down the riverbank.

But he can’t just stay up a tree all day. He’s running out of options and is uncomfortably aware of the fact.

“You wouldn’t get spooked and fall if I started yelling, right?” he asks, though it’s been lurking in his mind as possibility, and it’s the reason he hasn’t, yet. “You’re tough. You’re a mean old—well, okay,  _young_ —and I mean, not even that  _mean_ actually—but you’re an alley cat, anyway. You’re  _tough_. You wouldn’t get startled and fall out of the tree if I yelled for help. And even if you did, probably you’d land on your feet anyway. With better odds than me. I’ve read the statistics for accidental high falls. I’ll be honest, I don’t like my chances.”

As though seeking her permission, John reaches slowly, cautiously towards her, and is rewarded with a flattening of her ears and a bristling of her tail, and the sort of warning, moaning growl that immediately precedes a hiss of pure loathing. When he pauses for a moment, and then doesn’t give up on reaching for her, she goes so far as to take a swipe at him, though the movement destabilizes her already precarious perch, such that she clings with every available claw to the bark of the tree, and his reflexive retreat makes the branch tremor slightly, enough that he freezes and tightens his grip around the trunk. He feels the spike of his heartrate as his pulse pounds in his ears, and the scare is enough to change his mind about the risk of shouting.

“Wow! You’re kind of a brat. And if I didn’t like you so much, I’d—”

In the aftermath, he’ll never be sure if the sharp  _crack_  that lingers in his memory belonged to the branch, breaking; or the back of his skull, hitting the ground. The whole incident is a muddle of disconnected sensations that he’ll only recall piecemeal, and won’t be able to connect together. The swoop of vertigo as he’d lost his balance and toppled backward, too startled even to shout about his shock at falling. The way his knee had caught for a moment where it had been hooked around the branch, arresting his fall for only a fragment of a second, before gravity won the way it was always going to. The blur of black and a pair of green eyes staring  _down_  at him, from even higher up the tree than he’d found himself. And trying to push himself up from the ground. And then then sudden sharp shock of agony from some badly broken  _something_  being enough to plunge the sky above him into inky blackness.

* * *

John’s luckier than Virgil was, when Virgil had jumped out of a window, because he gets Scott, not Gordon. Although all Gordon had offered was his usual blistering sarcasm, and coming groggily back to consciousness to find Scott looking grim and mildly terrified, kneeling at his side makes John wonder if maybe Virgil got off easy The fear lurking in his big brother’s expression might be worse than anything Gordon could’ve said.

“Don’t move,” Scott orders immediately, with the sort of authority that must make criminals quake in their ill-gotten boots, and the hand he’s got braced against John’s shoulder is enough to prevent any attempt, though John doesn’t even begin to make one. “Ambulance is on the way.”

John blinks up at him, confused and still in pursuit of context for what he’s doing, staring “…Am I under arrest?” he asks, dazed and dizzy and damned if he can remember what the hell’s just happened.

“If I could figure out how to arrest you for being a  _stupid fucking idiot_ , you  _absolutely_  fucking would be. What the hell were you doing up a goddamn  _tree_?”

Scott’s mad, which is a good sign. John still doesn’t move, but he has to think for a minute to answer the question, which makes his head ache horribly. Almost worse than the rest of them. “Cat,” he supplies eventually, and hopes this is helpful, because it’s the only detail his brain offers. Scott’s a cop. Could probably make detective if he wanted. John’s pretty sure he can figure it out.

“ _Cat_? What… _why_ —you’re not a  _cat_!” Scott’s outrage at this explanation, admittedly rather light on the details, seems to run contrary to John’s assumption that his brother could make detective, if he just put the effort in. John blinks at him, bemused that he’s gotten it so wrong.

“…does one of us have a concussion?”

Scott just glares. “One of us  _absolutely_  has a fucking concussion.”

“…me?” If he doesn’t try to think too hard, his head doesn’t actually seem so bad. John’s back hurts, and he winces slightly, not moving, but wondering aloud, “…I think I’m lying on my phone.”

If John were working this call, he would be reassured by the fact that the victim was conversant, and alert enough to notice details like that. Scott just seems exasperated. “If you’re lying on your phone, it’s because you  _landed_  on your phone, which you emphatically  _haven’t_  used to call anybody about this.”

“…did somebody call about me?”

Scott’s glare becomes a glower. “Well, we  _didn’t_  get a call about a stupid  _idiot_ lying unconcious at the foot of a tree, we got a call—from  _your office_ —about a cat  _screaming_  behind the building like it was being  _skinned alive_. Non-emergency, even! Dispatch only threw it my way because I was in the area and I owe Animal Control a favour. I said we’d make sure it wasn’t a false alarm.”

“I  _hate_ false alarms,” John agrees, and closes his eyes. Just for a moment. The sky’s getting properly bright overhead, and the dawn for which he’d named a friend starts to spread properly across the sky. It makes his head hurt, even if it reminds him of her. And despite everything, somehow he isn’t mad. “I like cats, though.”

Scott’s only mad because he’s frightened. John probably hasn’t helped, but somehow his last statement seems to be enough to get his brother to crack a grin, weary and worried though it is. “Well. Hope this one was worth it.”

“Yeah.” John smiles to himself and closes his eyes again, as he hears the distant sound of an approaching siren. Usually he hears it from the other end of a phoneline. He wonders if it’s scared Eos. Then he wonders if she’s nearby, watching, and feels certain that probably she is, actually. After all—

“She’s my friend.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PROMPT:
> 
> such-a-random-rambler asked:
> 
> love this series of fics! It's been mentioned that John gets migraines- I wonder how that would affect the family?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by: akireyta!

Sally had learned to watch for signs years ago, because heaven only knew John would never open his mouth to say he was hurting.

The trouble was John was always subtle, even as a tiny babe in arms, and adulthood too soon had only taught him guile.  He hides his pains well; the merest frown or scowl, easily explained by the endless stress and worry, the only sign of the feeling of a head in a vice.

Sally never had migraines, but her Grant, god rest his soul, occasionally suffered for them.  It hurt her, that John had inherited the malady, and that there was nothing she could do to make it easier for him. The only pills they suspected would help him were priced so high as to be little more than a fantasy.

It takes her a few minutes to ease herself out of bed, her own pains pulling her back from her grandson in ways she’s grown to hate.  Alan’s long gone, door slammed hard enough to make even her wince, after the TV had been snapped off.

John is where she was afraid he would be, sat at the kitchen table, head on his arms.  The gills, such as she can see, are an unfetching shade of green.

He only twitches as she turns the faucet, lets the water run a moment before putting the mug left on the draining board under the flow. He’d cleaned, but she can still smell bile.

She sets the cup next to his arm, turns back to run a clean dishcloth under the water before turning off the tap.

He sighs, barely a whimper, as she presses the compress to his temple.  “Grandma, I’m fine, and it’s too chilly for you to be….”

“Hush child,” she pushes the mug closer.  “Let me take care of you for once.”

That he lets her tells her just how much he’s hurting.  She stands as he sags onto the table again, her gnarled, stiff fingers pressing into his taut neck muscles, combing through his hair.

Her hip grumbles, but she silently tells it hush too.  Her boys needed her more.


End file.
